4. - – Marcus
CHAPTER FOUR
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MARCUS
“You should’ve waited for SWAT to get there,” Captain Baird grumbles across the desk in his office at me.
My jaw tightens. “I couldn’t just stand by and watch that shit happen, Captain. That man…”
He waves me off. “I’m not talking about what you should have done as a man. I’m talking about being an officer of the law. There are protocols for a reason. You could have gotten yourself killed. Even Andrew.”
“I know.” I let out a breath. “They were ten minutes out and sir…” I narrow my eyes. “She didn’t have ten minutes.”
The captain rubs a hand across his forehead and leans back in his chair. “You’re lucky,” the captain says quietly. “Body cam. Witnesses. If even one thing had gone differently…”
He doesn’t finish.
I don’t either.
My shot went through and through. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. I found that out an hour after the shooting, when the captain told me the Feds were taking over and sent me home on leave.
I can’t bring myself to feel sorry about that. Any man who puts his hands on a woman deserves the same fate.
He sighs. “That’ll be all for now, Marcus. Go home and enjoy your time off while the Feds investigate.”
I nod and rise from my chair. “Thank you, sir.”
It’s been a week since the shooting, and the image of the dark-haired woman gripping me like I was her lifeline won’t leave me. She was so fragile. So scared. I still wake up hearing her scream.
The investigation ended yesterday. I’ve been cleared to go back to work in another week after mandatory therapy.
I don’t mind, though. Talking to someone about all of the thoughts swirling in my head might do me some good.
I grab a water bottle out of my stainless steel fridge and head to my mud room. A run should help clear my head of the way the man’s body hit the floor after I fired. Too many images plague my mind. It all haunts me.
I grab my keys and head for the car.
Morning light filters through the trees of the nearly empty park, scattering golden patches across the concrete path. The air smells faintly of freshly cut grass.
I chugged my water only moments ago, and I already have to pee. I jog the rest of the way to the bathrooms, and as my hand touches the handle, a familiar voice comes from behind me.
I slowly turn toward it, and when I see who it is, I freeze.
Sarah stands a few feet away, waving a little boy over to her. Her dark, wavy hair is curled, makeup flawless, not a bruise in sight.
My brows pinch. “Sarah?” Calls blur together over time, but not hers. The look of panic on her face when he shoved his gun in her face, and the shaky way her voice sounded after I pulled her from the house. It’s not something I’ll ever forget.
She turns toward me and tenses. She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leans down to the little girl in front of her. “Go play with your brother, sweetie.”
The child runs off with a big smile on her face, playground sand puffing up at her feet.
“Hi,” she says.
“How are you doing?” I try to keep it casual. My hands twitch awkwardly at my sides, missing the familiar weight of my vest and duty belt. I don’t normally see people I save or arrest out in public. At least not without my uniform on. Does she even remember me?
She glances at her kids at the playground. “I’ve been okay.”
She draws me in, making me forget reason. I step closer, and she steps back, so I stop. It’s her eyes. Dark swirls of brown that glow copper in the morning sun and pull at my heart.
I clear my throat and run my hand through my hair. “Glad to hear it.”
The silence stretches between us as we watch her kids play on the playground. I should go. I should walk into the bathroom, then go home. But I can’t fight her demanding presence.
She sways on her heels. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You didn’t do anything?” She chuckles. “You saved my life. So thank you.”
My spine stiffens. “Oh, I was just doing my job, ma’am.” I reach up to rest my hands on my vest, and my hands flop back to my sides awkwardly when they meet empty air.
She gives me a small smile. “Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”
“Right. Sorry. Habit.” I rock back on my heels, swallowing.
She fidgets with the hem of her shirt, biting her lip. “I’ve stopped by the station a few times looking for you.”
I raise my brow. “Was there something wrong with the report? I can fix it when I get back to work.”
She shakes her head. “No. No, that’s not it. I just…” She looks at the ground, and her fingers tremble for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath and looks up with a steadiness in her eyes. “Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?”
I jolt, my stomach dropping. Coffee is never just coffee in these situations. It’s a line I shouldn’t cross. It’s not right. I’m a police officer. “A coffee?”
She lets out a breath. “You’re really making this hard.” Her nervous laugh follows, and my gut twists.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I clear my throat. “I’ve just never been asked out by a victim.”
Her fingers stop twisting her shirt, and her eyes narrow. “Call me Sarah, and I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor.”
“I didn’t mean— I just…” No matter how much I want to accept, I can’t. “It’s unethical.”
“You’re not an officer right now. I don’t see a gun or a badge or even a uniform. So as far as I can see, it’s just two strangers going for coffee.” She raises her brow.
She drives a hard bargain, and as much as I know, this is not okay. Something in me breaks at the way her lip quirks and her head tilts as her round, hopeful eyes disarm me. Every rule pushes me to tell her no. Instead, I say, “Fine. But you’re buying.”
She laughs. “Of course.”
“Sarah.”
“Hmm?” she hums as she starts walking toward her kids.
“Call me Marcus.”
This earns me a genuine smile.